I recall the faint metaphor which calls dried leaves left the stage of life the portrait of autumn. Soundless patience of trees standing in a glacial winter wind, fresh shouts of tiny buds stretching themselves in the air of spring, and dazzling green raising its arms up to reach for the sky are entirely contained in a fallen leaf. I would look at the delicate face of the leaf as facing a mirror and call in a low whisper the hours sleeping in the rear of memory.